THE MAN IN THE KITCHEN

I’m not like Anna. Anna won’t even walk between her bedroom and the bathroom in anything less than a full set of clothes and impeccable make-up, which means she’s in the latter for ages. I doubt that even her boyfriend, Graham, has seen her with as much as a hair out of place. But I’m not immaculate at the best of times and certainly not when I’m just slobbing around the house. There’s no one here I’m trying to impress. I live with three other girls and although Graham’s here all the time, I wouldn’t care what he thought even if he wasn’t going out with Anna.

So on Saturday morning, I stumble downstairs to the kitchen, in a haze of self-loathing and my pyjamas and chocolate-stained dressing gown. I haven’t brushed my hair since seven last night and although I’m wearing make-up, it’s yesterday’s. I’ll have a shower and get dressed soon, but first I require lard. This isn’t an entirely appealing prospect, since I’m nauseous from last night’s drinking and panic about my undone essays. But once I’ve eaten and sorted myself out, I’ll head to the computer room and attack them, hideous though this prospect is. I reassure myself it’s only nine hours til I can go out again and I can check my e-mail and Facebook once I arrive.

But I stop at the sight of an unfamiliar bloke sitting at the table reading The Big Issue. I step out of the doorway before he sees me and scamper back to my room. Or what I think is my room. Did I go back to someone else’s house last night? No, it’s my place all right. There’s a perfectly rational explanation for there being a bloke in my kitchen: one of my housemates must have pulled last night. Woo!

Well, I assume it was Shona. Anna’s been with Graham for over a year now and they’re sickeningly together. Anna’s every sentence includes the word “Gray” and Graham barely speaks to the rest of us although I’m not sure if that’s because we’re not his beloved Anna or because he sees us as lesser beings for not meeting his ideals of womanliness. He’s a misogynistic twat and I don’t think Anna really likes him that much either. I suspect they’re just together because they don’t want to be alone. When I hear them talking, he’s always droning on about some rugby match and she’s told me she doesn’t understand or give a fuck about the sport. And she tells him about dresses she’s seen in Monsoon and her cousin’s upcoming wedding, which I don’t suppose interests him either. But a lot of the time they don’t even talk, just watch bollocks on TV.

As for my other housemate, Carrie, I can’t imagine her pulling anyone ever. She spends all day in the computer rooms and stays there long into the night. Every time I go over to speak to her there, she’s reading the stupid bitchy university forums or playing some trivial computer game or watching Youtube videos, though she quickly hides them when she notices me and complains about how much studying she has to do. Apart from us, I don’t think she has any friends, so unless this guy lives in the computer room too or posts on the university forums, I can’t imagine where she’d meet him. And, to be honest, I can’t imagine him going for her anyway. He was quite fit, from what I saw, and she isn’t by anyone’s definition. She’s fat from living on vending machine food and has greasy hair and glasses.

But it’s not like Shona to bring anyone back either, certainly not without consulting me. She gets a lot of attention and encourages it, but she’s still a virgin and never gets beyond a first date. “I do like him,” she’ll whinge to me in the toilets of the campus nightclub, night after night, “but . . .” and she’ll recount all the times they’ve spoken and analyse his every characteristic and I’ll listen patiently, giving her the best advice I can. Don’t get me wrong, her dramas keep life interesting, but it annoys me how she enslaves all these blokes and they never notice that she has a friend, who isn’t as hot as she is, but not so bad, I hope, and certainly not so wishy-washy. I wish she’d just settle for someone and stop stringing all the others along.

Well, maybe my luck has changed, but didn’t we walk home together last night? Yeah, I remember us talking about Izzy. No, wait, that was the night before. I don’t know. Ah, here she is in her nightshirt, carrying some clothes.

“Urgh,” she greets me.

“Same to you,” I say. “So, who’s the bloke?”

“What bloke?”

“The guy sitting at the kitchen table.”

She coughs pathetically. “I don’t know. Nothing to do with me.”

“Well, who else would he have anything to do with?”

“I don’t know. Are you suggesting-“ She lowers her voice. “-someone pulled him?”

“Yeah, you.”

“How? I didn’t go out last night, I’m ill, remember?”

“Oh, of course. Then-“ We glance at Anna’s door.

“Gosh,” she whispers. Sound travels altogether too well in this place. I’ve had to buy earplugs to block out Anna and Graham’s noisy sex.

“What a slapper,” I reply, sotto voce. “I always wondered. I mean, it’s not that Graham deserves any better, but it’s still pretty low to-”

Her door opens and she swans out, fully dressed and made-up, of course, looking imperious and self-assured. God, I hate her. Graham follows.

Oh.

No. Surely not. I know what rugby players are supposed to be a bit too physical with each other and posh people are meant to be into kinky shit, but they're both so painfully conventional, struggling to understand how anyone fails to share their conversative values, would they really have a threesome?

“Having a conference?” she enquires, as we jump apart guiltily.

“Yeah,” Shona says. “There’s a bloke in the kitchen, and he’s not mine or Tanya’s, so . . .”

“Surely not?” she gasps, her big eyes widening further, as she nods to Carrie’s door.

She sounds convincing. “It’s always the quiet ones!” Shona marvels.

“Yeah, but he’s pretty fit!” I protest, under my breath. “And you’d think she’d have said something if she was interested in someone. We’re meant to be her friends, here. And can you imagine her getting drunk and pulling a random?”

“You never can tell,” Anna drawls. “Well, bye darling.” She pecks Graham on the lips and strolls into the bathroom, oblivious to Shona’s clear intention of going in. Graham heads for the door.

“What a cow,” I whisper to Shona. “She could have at least stayed to speculate. But do you think-”

But then Carrie emerges, in the same baggy stained t-shirt and frumpy skirt she wore yesterday, carrying her heavy backpack. Much as I resent Anna hogging the bathroom, I wish Carrie would shower more often. Surely the bloke can’t have come home with her? “Well, hello!” I say. “Did you have a good night last night?”

“What do you think?” she groans. “I was studying til 4 and I’ve still got two essays to write by Monday.”

“Join the club,” I sympathise. She sounds convincing. “You didn’t invite some guy to stay on the sofa, did you?”

“Why would I do that?”

“No reason, it’s just that there’s one sitting in the kitchen now.”

“Nothing to do with me. Maybe it’s some friend of Graham’s.”

“Maybe,” I agree. “He does seem to think he lives here and can do what he likes.”

“Well, I’d better go,” she sighs, and heads downstairs.

“But Graham would have said something, if the mystery man was his friend, surely?” Shona says. “So if he’s nothing to do with Anna, or Carrie, then . . .”

“Oh God,” I say. “I can’t have been that drunk. Can I?”

I try to recover memories of last night and wince at each. Some girl accosting me in the bar queue, who seemed to know my life story, when I hadn’t a clue who she was. Pushing in front of people. Bitching about Shona to some girl in the toilets. Going into the men’s by mistake. Doing the Saturday Night dance to Cotton Eye Joe. Shit. Dropping an entire drink on the dancefloor. Forcing my way into a photo, thinking I looked totally cool, when I had my skirt tucked into my knickers. Argh. And Tristan was there. Fuck, how many times now have I sworn I’m never doing E again? It explains a lot, but God, I hate what it does to my attention span, never mind all the snogging randoms and gibbering about how beautiful everything is and I’m sure that fat bitch security guard was onto me. And I came onto Oli, blatantly, again. Fuck.

But I can’t remember ever seeing this bloke before. And surely I’d remember pulling someone, no matter how drunk I was? It’s not as if though happens very often. I remember lingering outside the club hopefully afterwards, smoking a fag I’d bummed off a stranger even though I don't smoke, really, but try as I might, I can’t remember the walk home or anything afterwards.

This is no good. What’s become of me? Going out a couple of times a week with your friends for a few drinks is one thing, but I’ve turned into one of those disgusting cases who’d pass out on the beach wearing nothing but their own vomit on "Ibiza Uncovered". My degree is going down the drain, I have no idea what I'll do afterwrads, I’ve been out four times this week, mostly on my own, and I can’t even estimate how much I had to drink. But the notion of restraining myself is unthinkable. I’m twenty one and this is my last year of university. How can I content myself with having a quiet civilized time?

At least he’s fit. But what happened? I woke wearing my pyjamas and why would I wear them if I had company? Maybe I put them on to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, but surely I would have been past caring. This is bad. I’ve had blackouts before, but nothing this major. At least he’s stuck around. But maybe that’s just because the door was locked and he had to. He got up, presumably because he couldn’t stand another moment beside my vile snoring corpse. Oh God.

Well, one thing’s for certain: I’ve got to somehow change his opinion. I don’t want any more rumours spread about me and he’s quite a catch. My faith in myself is failing fast and I can’t face the disappointment of him running away once I unlock the door. I need an upturn in my fortune. I have to somehow reconstruct the events of last night and make myself presentable.

Shona, bless her, tries to help me remember while Anna’s in the bathroom, but nothing works. I can't locate any used condoms, but that isn’t necessarily a good thing. Looks like a trip to the chemist’s for me. Then she hits the shower – she was there first, after all - leaving me to stew in my self-disgust. If life was a romantic comedy, I’d be fine. Girl makes total tit of herself, but bloke falls for her anyway, but my life doesn’t go like that. Even if I manage to remember and dress nicely, I can’t imagine it will be enough to convince him to ever speak to me again. I know the real reason Shona wins everyone over. It’s because she’s a good person. I used to be a decent student, I used to have interests, but now I just drink and bitch and stalk rubbish men on Facebook and dance like a twat. I’m boring and self-centred and deeply unpleasant. But if I had a boyfriend, I’d feel better about myself, and I wouldn’t need to drink the fear and pain away.

Please let him find this funny. He did opt to come home with me, twatted though I was. Please can I have just one chance?

After my shower, I try on all my clothes, but I look fat and frumpy in everything. Shona and Anna have nicer gear they’d maybe lend me, but I’ll never fit into it. Suddenly, I recall a kebab. But was that last night or the night before? I can’t remember being with anyone at the time . . . oh never mind. I’ll pretend I hit my head. Maybe I did. It really hurts, after all.

Eventually, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, though that’s not saying much. I have to pretend I’m not totally hungover and that I’m a sane good-natured soul and I was never very good at acting. And knowing my luck, he’ll probably have already gone, letting himself out when Graham or Carrie did.

And sure enough, he’s vanished. The place looks slightly odd without him, even though he wasn’t exactly a long-term fixture. I check to see if he’s in the living room and, notice with a start, that not only is he not there, but neither is the TV.

Or the DVD player.

Or the PlayStation.

And, on re-examining the kitchen, neither is the microwave.

And then I remember one thing that happened last night. I was lying in bed when I realised I hadn’t locked the door, but I told myself I’d get up and do it in a minute . . .